THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONNETS 


AND 


A    DREAM 


BY 

WILLIAM  REED  HUNTINGTON 


tEUttion 


THOMAS  WHITTAKER 

2  AND  3  BIBLE  HOUSE,  NEW-YORK 

1903 


Copyright,  1898,   1903, 
By  WILLIAM   REED   HUNTINGTON. 


THE  MARION   PRESS 
JAMAICA      QUEENSBOROUGH      NEW-YORK 


NOTE. 

The  Author's  acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  pub 
lishers  of  The  Century,  Harper's  Monthly,  Harper's 
Weekly,  The  Outlook,  and  The  Spectator  for  permis 
sion  to  reprint  such  of  his  Sonnets  as  were  originally 
contributed  to  the  pages  of  these  periodicals.  With 
respeft  to  the  Sonnet  "  Does  America  hate  England?'1 
it  is  proper  to  say  that  it  was  written  while  the  ani 
mosities  enkindled  by  the  Venezuela  dispute  were  still 
flagrant,  and  long  before  the  billing  and  cooing  with 
which  the  international  atmosphere  is  now  vocal  had 
begun  ;  in  faft,  a  London  journalist  had  at  the  time 
opened  his  columns  to  a  solemn  discussion  of  the 
question  which  gives  the  poem  its  title.  To  clear  the 
last  piece  in  the  book  from  a  certain  flavor  of  pla 
giarism  which  might  otherwise  cling  to  it,  the  Author 
ventures  to  add  that  the  verses  had  been  written  and 
were  in  private  circulation  a  year  before  the  poem 
which  they  have  been  thought  to  resemble  appeared. 

W.  R.  H. 


CONTENTS. 

SONNETS.  PAGE 
SONNETS  OF  EARTH  AND  SKY. 

Tellus          .          .          .          .          .  .11 

The  Cold  Meteorite            .          .          .  12 

Love's  Orbit         .          .          .          .  13 

Authority         .          .          .          .          .  14 

SONNETS  OF  COUNTRY. 

"  Does  America  Hate  England  ?"     .  17 

The  White  Squadron           .           .          .  1 8 

After  Santiago       .           .           .           .  19 

SONNETS  OF  DOUBT  AND  FAITH. 

"No  More  Sea"    \          .          .          .  23 

Free  Will  ? 24 

Anima  naturaliter  Christiana        .           .  25 
Jael    .......      26 

Jael  and  Mary            ....  27 

Renunciation         .          .          .          .  .28 

"Visiting  God"        ....  29 

The  Face  of  Things      .          .          .  -3° 

The  Heart  of  Things         .          .          .  31 

Lowlands     .          .          .          .          .  32 

5 


SONNETS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

Late  Harvests             .          .          .  .           35 

Isaac             .           .           .           .  .           -36 

Isaac  and  Rebekah     .           .           .  .            37 

"Among  the  Kings  "     .          .  .          -38 

Cypress  and  Holly    .           .           .  .            39 

The  House  Mother  of  St.  Faith's  .          .      40 

The  Plough  in  the  Furrow            .  .            41 

From  Green  Mountain,    I  .           .42 

From  Green  Mountain,  II  43 
Garonda       ......      44 

The  Golden  Wedding         .          .  .           45 

CHRISTMAS  ISLAND.     A  Dream  .          .      49 

ADDITIONAL  VERSES. 

The  Burial  of  Lincoln    .          .  .          -63 

The  Lexington  Centenary             .  .            65 

Atbanasius  contra  Mundum  .  ,  -67 
The  Last  Denial  ....  69 
To  Dr.  Allen  on  the  Completion  of  his 

Life  of  Phillips  Brooks         .  .          .      7 1 

Harvard            .           .           .           .  .            73 

Midnight  on  Mansfield  Mountain  .           .      74 

Simon  Peter      .           .           .           .  .            76 

The  Surgeons  at  Bull  Run       .  .          -79 

Saint  Crispin    .          .          .          .  .           8 1 

6 


Saint  Dorothy             .          .          .  .           83 

Before  Ordination           .          .  .          .90 

Outward  Bound         .          .          .  .           91 

Cradle  Song          .-         .          .  .          -93 

The  Hillside  School            .          .  .           94 

Sursum  Corda        .           .        •  -,  .           .96 

Advent  Hymn            .          .         •  .  .           97 

Sanftuary  Doves   .           .          .  .           .98 
An  Anniversary  in  Saint  Paul's  Chapel, 

Eve  of  All  Saints',  MDCCCLXXXII  .           99 

Fourth  of  July  at  Yaddo          .  .               I  o  I 

The  Desired  Haven            .          .  .         104 


SONNETS  OF  EARTH  AND  SKY. 


TELLUS. 

HY  here,  on  this  third  planet  from  the  Sun, 
Fret  we  and  smite  against  our  prison-bars  ? 
Why  not  in  Saturn,  Mercury,  or  Mars 
Mourn  we  our  sins,  the  things  undone  and  done  ? 
Where  was  the  soul's  bewildering  course  begun? 
In  what  sad  land  among  the  scattered  stars 
Wrought  she  the  ill  which  now  for  ever  scars 
By  bitter  consequence  each  viftory  won  ? 
I  know  not,  dearest  friend,  yet  this  I  see, 

That  thou  for  holier  fellowships  wast  meant ; 
Through  some  strange  blunder  thou  art  here  ;  and  we 

Who  on  the  convift  ship  were  hither  sent 
By  judgment  just,  must  not  be  named  with  thee 
Whose  tranquil  presence  shames  our  discontent. 


THE  COLD  METEORITE. 

HILE  through  our  air  thy  kindling  course 

was  run 
A  momentary  glory  filled  the  night ; 

The  envious  stars  shone  fainter,  for  thy  light 
Garnered  the  wealth  of  all  their  fires  in  one. 
Ah,  short-lived  splendor  !    journey  ill-begun  ! 

Half-buried  in  the  Earth  that  broke  thy  flight, 

No  longer  in  thy  broidered  raiment  dight, 
Here  liest  thou  dishonored,  cold,  undone. 
"  Nay,  critic  mine,  far  better  'tis  to  die 

The  death  that  flashes  gladness,  than  alone, 
In  frigid  dignity,  to  live  on  high  ; 

Better  in  burning  sacrifice  be  thrown 
Against  the  world  to  perish,  than  the  sky 

To  circle  endlessly  a  barren  stone." 


LOVE'S  ORBIT. 

HE  punctual  Earth  unto  the  self-same  bound 
Whence  she  essayed,  a  twelvemonth  gone, 

to  run 

Her  planetary  course  about  the  sun, 
To-day  returneth,  having  filled  her  round. 
Yet  in  her  heart  no  fretful  thought  is  found 
That  she  must  needs  re-seek  the  prizes  won, 
Afresh  begin  the  task  so  oft  begun  ; 
Joyous  she  hears  the  starter's  trumpet  sound. 
So,  sweet  heart,  though  Love's  travel,  year  by  year, 
Must  ever  through  remembered  spaces  lie, 

Streaked  with  monotony  of  day  and  night, — 
Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  Winter, —  have  no  fear  ; 
For  we  shall  love  Love's  orbit,  thou  and  I, 
And  in  the  blessed  sameness  find  delight. 


AUTHORITY. 

upon  ether  float  the  worlds 
secure. 

Naught  hath  the  truthful  Maker  to  conceal. 
No  trestle-work  of  adamant  or  steel 
Is  that  high  firmament  where  these  endure. 
Patient,  majestic,  round  their  cynosure 
In  secular  procession  see  them  wheel ; 
Self-poised,  but  not  self-centered,  for  they  feel 
In  each  tense  fibre  one  all- conquering  lure. 
And  need  I  fret  me,  Father,  for  that  Thou 
Dost  will  the  weightiest  verities  to  swing 

On  viewless  orbits  ?     Nay,  henceforth  I  cleave 
More  firmly  to  the  CREDO  ;  and  my  vow 
With  readier  footstep  to  thine  altar  bring, 
As  one  who  counts  it  freedom  to  believe. 


SONNETS  OF  COUNTRY. 


"DOES  AMERICA  HATE  ENGLAND?" 

1897. 

|ARE  to  love  England  ?   And  to  say  so  ?    Yes. 
Though  the  Celt  rage,  and  every  half-breed 
scowl ; 

Though  Hun  and  Finn  and  Russ  and  Polack  howl 
Their  malediction,  coddled  by  a  Press 
Alert  at  cursing,  indolent  to  bless, 

Unheedy  which  shall  prosper,  fair  or  foul, 

So  that  the  trough  run  over,  and  a  growl 
Of  fierce  approval  soothe  its  restlessness. 
For  from  thy  loins,  O  Mother,  sped  the  souls 

That  dreamed  the  greater  England.     Not  in  vain 
Their  sweat  of  blood.     To-day  the  smoke-cloud  rolls 

Off  high  Quebec,  while  from  the  Spanish  Main 
The  requiem-bell  of  buried  empire  tolls, — 

Their  old  world's  loss,  our  new  world's  affluent  gain. 


THE  WHITE  SQUADRON. 

1897. 

AR  in  the  offing,  sharp  against  the  blue, 
Six  firm-webbed,  stately  swans  they  hold 

their  way, 

Skirting  Mount  Desert  of  an  August  day, 
Cruiser  and  battleship  in  sequence  due, 
On  dress-parade,  slow-steaming  for  review. 
Which  destiny  is  theirs  ?     Only  to  play 
At  war?     Or  likelier,  shall  we  say, 
For  cause,  at  last,  their  long  reserve  break  through  ? 
Yet,  should  the  guns  of  the  Republic  speak, 

I  would  they  spake  with  judgment.     Be  their  lips 

Mutely  indifferent  to  the  Jingo's  nod, 
Stern  towards  the  cruel,  potent  for  the  weak, 
Aflame  to  guard  the  honor  of  the  ships, 
And  shotted  with  the  arguments  of  God. 


18 


AFTER  SANTIAGO. 
1898. 

ITH  folded  arms,  my  Country,  speak  thy  will. 
Clean  be  those  hands  of  thine  from  smirch 

of  trade. 

Let  the  sheathed  sword  hang  idle.     They  persuade 
The  baser  course,  who,  not  content  to  kill, 
Would  carve  out  cantles  of  the  spoil,  and  fill 
The  sacred  edge  of  that  victorious  blade 
With  stain  of  plunder.     Never  was  there  made 
The  sword  that  could  be  knife  and  weapon  still. 
Thou  sawest  God's  angel  at  the  anvil  stand 

And  forge  the  steel.     He  smote  it  blow  on  blow. 

Wrathful  he  seemed  ;  yet  ever  from  above 
He  stooped,  the  while,  and  swiftly  dipt  the  brand 
In  tears,  yea,  tears ;  that  he  might  make  thee  know 
How  vain  were  vengeance  unannealed  by  love. 


SONNETS  OF 
DOUBT  AND  FAITH. 


"NO  MORE  SEA." 

NREST  my  birthright  is.     I  cannot  choose 
But  rock  and  toss  at  angry  ocean's  will. 
For  if,  at  times,  my  shallop  lying  still 
Seem  somewhat  of  its  restlessness  to  lose, 
'T  is  but  a  sign  that  balanced  on  the  wave 
It  for  a  moment  hangs,  the  next  to  fall 
Deep  in  the  trough  where  many  a  dolorous  call 
Of  tempest- voices  mocks  the  untimely  grave. 
Meanwhile,  I  sit  beside  the  helm  and  mark 
The  scanty  stars  that  peer  amid  the  rifts ; 
Nor  loosen  hold ;  it  may  be  that  my  barque 

Shall  come  at  last  to  where  God's  city  lifts 
Her  lucid  walls,  and  beckoneth  through  the  dark ; 
"There  shall  be  no  more  sea,"  her  best  of  gifts. 


FREE  WILL? 

|ASTWARD  the  vessel  plunged  ;  her  high- 
flung  spray 

A  trysting-place  for  rainbows  ;  every  thrill 
And  throb  of  the  huge  monster  winning  still 
For  the  tossed  cloud  some  newly -broken  ray 
From  the  cold  sunshine  of  that  autumn  day  ; 
Type,  thought  I,  of  the  phantasies  which  fill 
These  hearts  of  ours,  persuading  that  "  I  will" 
Is  somewhat  other  than  plain  "I  obey." 
Then,  ere  the  prow  had  scaled  another  ridge, 
Murmuring  "At  least  this  deck's  length  must  be 

free," 

And  thinking  to  pique  Fate  by  counter-choice, 
Westward  I  walked ;  but  Fate  still  conquered  me  ; 
"  Due  East !  "  the  captain  thundered  from  the  bridge. 
"Due  East  it  is,  Sir,"  came  the  steersman's 
voice. 


ANIMA  NATURALITER   CHRISTIANA. 

(Tertullian:  Apologia  c.  XVII.) 

j]IGH  in  a  corner  of  my  study  glooms 
A  nut-brown  corbel,  rough-hewn  out  of  teak, 
From  some  far  island  fetched  where  traders 

seek 

Wealth  of  rare  spices,  languorous  perfumes, 
Gems,  and  the  silken  yield  of  antique  looms 
By  dusky  fingers  tended.     With  her  beak 
Deep  in  her  breast,  a  pelican,  the  meek 
Type  of  that  mother-love  which  gladly  dooms 
Itself  to  perish,  if  so  be  the  brood 

Die  not,  is  seen,  puissant,  trampling  down 
Man's  foe,  the  dragon.     Surely  the  swart  clown, 

Who  skilled  this  marvel,  mystic  vision  caught 
Of  that  which  precious  makes  the  precious  blood  ; 
Proven  a  Christian  by  the  work  he  wrought. 


JAEL. 

"  Blessed  above  women  shall  Jael  the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite 
be,  blessed  shall  she  be  above  women  in  the  tent."    Judges  -v,  24. 

1HAT?   "Blessed  above  women  in  the  tent" 
Shall  Jael,  Heber's  wife,  the  Kenite  be? 
A  murderess  blessed  ?    Nay,  no  murderess 

she  ; 

Judith  and  Charlotte  on  like  errand  went. 
Doubtless  some  angel  of  God's  wrath  had  sent 
The  tyrant  to  her.     Should  his  voiceless  plea, — 
"I  am  thy  guest,"  avail  to  hold  him  free 
From  the  sharp  stroke  of  long-earned  punishment  ? 
Nay,  mercy  for  the  merciless  were  waste ; 
Not  thus  doth  Israel's  jealous  God  requite. 

Whoso  sheds  blood  of  man,  upon  his  head 
Falls  doom  of  blood.     Then,  stealthily,  in  haste, 
She  grasped  the  hammer,  smote  the  nail  with  might, 
And,  lo,  there  at  her  feet  lay  Sisera  dead. 


^6 


JAEL  AND  MARY. 

"And  the  angel  came  in  unto  her  and  said,  Hail  thou  that  art 
highly  favored,  the  Lord  is  with  thee ;  blessed  art  thou  among 
women."  St.  Luke  i,  28. 


ES,  blessed  above  "women  in  the  tent." 
But  time  hath  struck  the  tent  and  built  the 

home. 

The  benediftion  lapses.     She  is  come 
Who  sets  the  loftier  mark.     Old  veils  are  rent, 
And  far  predictions  cleared  by  late  event. 
As  mist  of  morning,  as  the  light  sea-foam, 
Passes  the  glory  of  the  tribes  that  roam, 
And  all  the  force  of  Jael's  blow  is  spent. 
Come  Mary  with  thy  lily,  with  thy  dove ; 
Thy  better  blessing,  more  effulgent  day  ; 
Forgotten  be  the  hammer  and  the  nail. 
Come,  guide  us  with  the  sceptre  of  thy  love : 
Stronger  the  lips  that  plead  than  hands  that  slay. 
Kenite,  Farewell  !     Mother  of  Jesus,  Hail ! 


RENUNCIATION. 

LOOKED  at  sunset  forth  upon  the  lake, 
And  said  with  scorn,  "'Tis  scarcely  hard 
for  them 

To  boast  their  dullness  and  this  world  contemn 
Who  love  not  beauty  for  her  own  sweet  sake. 
But  as  for  me  a  mightier  Christ  must  wake 

In  all  my  veins,  and  from  his  garment's  hem 

A  virtue  pass  not  hid  in  graven  gem, 
Ere  I  such  sweet  enchantment  can  forsake." 
For  all  the  West  was  golden  on  the  hill ; 

And  down  the  slope  the  bowered  gardens  lay, 
With  blossoms  red,  just  silvered  where  the  rill 

Dropt  towards  the  lake,  and  dropping  seemed  to  say, 
' '  Cease  thy  vain  struggle,  self-deceived  will  ; 

Thy  fetters  learn  to  love,  thy  fate  obey." 


"VISITING  GOD." 

"My  duty  towards  God  is  to  believe  in  Him,  to  fear  Him,  and 
to  love  Him,  with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  mind,  with  all  my 
soul,  and  with  all  my  strength  :  .  .  .  .  to  call  upon  Him  :  " 

Church  Catechism. 

OWARDS  God,  what  is  thy  duty,  Margot 

dear?" 

'My  duty  is  to  love  Him,"  she  replied, 
"  With  heart  and  mind  and  soul,  with  strength 

beside : 

To  worship  Him,  to  give  Him  thanks,  to  fear, 
To  visit  Him," — "Nay,  child,  the  word  is  here 
To  'call  on'  Him."   "Well,  Auntie,  have  it  so; 
They  mean  the  same."     Thus  art  thou  taught  to 

know, 

Sad  soul  of  mine,  a  lesson  wondrous  clear. 
Grass-grown  the  path  and  tangle-tost  with  thorn 
That  leadeth  to  his  threshold  Who  hath  said, — 
"Come,  for  the  feast  is  ready,  come  to  Me." 
For  I  have  feared  Thee,  Father,  and  forlorn 
Have  dwelt  afar,  an-hungered  for  thy  bread  ; 
But  now,  heart-whole,  I  rise  to  "visit"  Thee. 


*9 


THE  FACE  OF  THINGS. 

HEARKENED  to  the  preacher  from  his 

perch 

Glibly  declaring  the  great  Maker  good ; 
The  ban  a  blessing  if  but  understood  ; 
The  frown  a  smile ;  the  seeming-evil  lurch 
Of  Nature's  gait  a  steady  walk  to  church, 
Did  we  but  read  her  motions  as  we  should. 
God  had  made  all  things  beautiful, —  and  could 
A  weightier  proof  of  goodness  crown  our  search  ? 
I  looked  ;  —  a  shaft  of  random  sunshine,  shot 
Across  the  listeners,  chanced  to  smite  a  face, 
Alas,  too  well  remembered.     In  the  array 
Of  loveliest  women  lovelier  there  is  not, — 

And  yet  a  tigress.     "Priest,"  I  cried,  "Thy  case 
Is  argued  ill  ;  the  hard  faft  says  thee  Nay  ! ' ' 


30 


THE  HEART  OF  THINGS. 

HICK  sprang  the  briers  about  her  tender  feet, 
On  either  side  and  underneath  they  grew ; 
She  murmured  not,  but  with  a  courage  true 
Pressed  on  as  if  the  pathway  had  been  sweet. 
And  now  and  then  she  stooping  plucked  a  thorn, 
And  wove  it  in  the  meshes  of  her  hair. 
"  Hath  she  no  gems  that  she  should  choose  to  wear 
So  sharp  a  diadem?"  they  asked  in  scorn. 
But  as  she  nears  her  journey's  ending,  lo  ! 

A  folded  door  is  suddenly  flung  wide  ; 
Out  on  the  dark  great  waves  of  splendor  flow, 

Flooding  the  thicket  with  effulgent  tide. 
And  now  the  pilgrim's  crown  looks  all  aglow, 
The  thorns  still  thorns,  but,  ah  !  how  glorified  ! 


LOWLANDS. 

S  one  who  goes  from  holding  converse  sweet 
In  cloistered  walls  with  great  ones  of  the 
past, 

And  steps,  enwrapt  in  visions  high  and  vast, 
To  meet  his  fellows  in  the  noisy  street ; 
So  we,  descending  from  the  mountain's  height, 

Feel  strange  discordance  in  the  world  below. 

Is  this  the  calm  that  there  enchanted  so  ? 
It  cannot  be  that  we  beheld  aright. 
But  courage  !  not  for  ever  on  the  mount ; 

Far  oftener  in  the  valley  must  we  move  ; 

The  things  that  lie  about  us  learn  to  love, 
And  for  the  work  allotted  us  account ; 

Content  if,  now  and  then,  we  track  above 
The  tumbling  waters  to  their  placid  fount. 


SONNETS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


LATE  HARVESTS. 

HREESCORE  and  ten  have  ripened  to  four 
score  ; 
The  shadows  longer  reach  ;  the  sunset  nears ; 

But  He  who  fills  the  measure  of  thy  years 
Full  to  the  brim,  pressed  down  and  running  o'er, 
Sows  as  He  gathers,  scatters  while  He  reaps ; 

Counting  the  fruitage  of  the  life  we  see 

Only  as  seed  of  harvests  yet  to  be 
In  the  fair  fields  his  lovingkindness  keeps. 
To  Him  we  look.     To  whom  if  not  to  Him  ? 

For  little  hath  He  left  in  age  to  thee, 

And  little  hath  He  left  in  youth  to  me, 
Save  his  own  promise  that  the  eyes  here  dim 

With  mists  of  sorrow  shall  have  vision  free, 
And  lips  now  silent  pour  their  morning  hymn. 


35 


ISAAC. 

"And  Isaac  went  out  to  meditate  in  the  field  at  eventide." 

Genesis  xxi<v,  63. 

LONELY  spirit  by  sad  thought  opprest, 
With  few  to  comfort,  none  to  understand, 
The  son  of  Abram  thirsted  for  the  land 
Where  there  remaineth  for  God's  people  rest; 
The  far-off  land  beyond  the  sunset's  glow, 
The  golden  land  where  happy  saints  abide, 
And  ofttimes  in  the  field  at  eventide 
He  questioned  with  himself,  and  longed  to  go. 
Why  should  he  tarry  ?     She  whom  best  he  knew, 

Whom  most  he  prized,  whose  love  no  shade  of  doubt 
Had  ever  touched,  so  fond  it  was  and  true, 

No  more  among  the  tents  went  in  and  out, 
But  where  the  oaks  on  Ephron's  acre  grew 
Lay  silent,  sepulchred  by  hands  devout. 


36 


ISAAC  AND  REBEKAH. 

"  And  Isaac  brought  her  into  his  mother  Sarah's  tent,  and  took 
Rebekah  and  she  became  his  wife ;  and  he  loved  her ;  and  Isaac 
was  comforted  after  his  mother's  death."  Genesis  xxi-v,  6y. 

PON  his  gloom  her  smile  like  sunshine  fell ; 
Into  his  life  her  voice  with  music  came ; 
From  out  dead  embers  sprang  a  living  flame  ; 
The  thirsty  camels,  at  her  father's  well, 
Drank  not  more  eagerly,  beneath  the  spell 

Of  her  sweet  presence,  waters  that  she  drew, 
Than  he  her  love,  whose  worth  none  other  knew, 
And  known  was  wealthier  than  tongue  might  tell. 
Her  meekness  hallows  every  slightest  deed, 

Her  quick  compliance  half-way  meets  his  will, 
Her  anxious  care  foreknows  his  every  need, 

Her  patience  waits  upon  his  weakness  still. 
No  longer  sorrow's  slave,  now  shall  he  lead 
Such  life  as  doth  all  righteousness  fulfill. 


37 


"AMONG  THE  KINGS." 

"  And  they  buried  him   .    .    .   among  the  kings." 

//  Chronicles  xxi-v,  16. 

ES,  lay  him  down  among  the  royal  dead. 
His  steady  hand  no  more  the  censer  swings. 
Room  for  this  priest  beside  the  bones  of 

kings, 

For  kingly  was  he,  though  a  priest,"  they  said. 
Great-hearted  friend  !  thee,  too,  we  counted  bred 
For  priesthood  loftier  than  the  tardy  wings 
Of  souls  content  with  songs  the  caged  bird  sings 
Are  wont  to  soar  to.     Thine  it  was  to  wed 
Far-sundered  thoughts  in  amity  complete ; 

With  Christ's  own  freedom  fettered  minds  to  free  ; 
To  thrid  the  darkling  paths  where  timid  feet 

Faltered  and  slipped.     Oh,  it  was  not  in  thee 
To  blanch  at  any  peril  !     Then  most  meet 

That  thou  among  the  kings  shouldst  buried  be. 


CYPRESS  AND  HOLLY. 

ilCROSS  the  voice  of  children  piping  clear 
Their  welcome  carols  to  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Broke  sudden-sharp  a  cry  that  bade  us  cease 
From  wreath  and  song  and  all  the  season's  cheer ; 
For  lo  !  unto  our  feast  had  one  drawn  near 
Who  with  the  Christmas  angels  mateth  ill ; 
And  there  had  faded  from  that  presence  chill 
A  life  just  made  by  new  life  doubly  dear. 
Then  through  the  church  of  All  Saints,  now  most  still, 

This  sentence  sounded  on  a  listening  ear : 
"Peace  !     It  is  well !     Even  thus  must  she  fulfill 
His  purpose  whom  we  worship  without  fear. 
The  first  of  brides  to  speak  her  promise  here, 
She  leaves  us  at  the  heavenly  Bridegroom's  will." 


39 


THE  HOUSE  MOTHER  OF  ST.  FAITH'S. 

jjHE  throne,  the  crown,  the  sceptre, —  have 

we  lost, 

In  losing  these,  the  queen?    I  tell  you  Nay. 
Vanished  the  baubles,  but  in  endless  stay 
Abides  the  queenship  ;  holding  not  by  boast 
Of  armored  fleet,  or  quartered  shield,  or  ghost 
Of  right  divine,  or  by  a  long  array 
Of  maxims  of  the  law,  but  in  their  way 
Who  seeming  least  to  rule  us,  rule  us  most. 
Her  crown  a  circlet  of  transfigured  thorn, 
Her  throne  the  lowliest  seat,  her  rod 

A  southern  lily,  and  her  realm  a  home, — 
She  lived  among  us  queen  by  grace  of  God 
Unto  the  purple  through  the  Spirit  born. 

Hearken  ye,  daughters  !   Hear  ye  not  her 
"Come"? 


40 


THE  PLOUGH  IN  THE  FURROW. 

RIEND  of  the  open  hand,  the  genial  eye, 
The  lip  that  faltered  never, —  where  art 

thou  ? 

We  cannot  think  thee  idle,  though  the  plough 
Half-way  the  furrow  thus  forsaken  lie. 
Thou  didst  not  loose  thy  grasp  for  lack  of  high 
And  purposeful  endeavor,  for  till  now 
No  laggard  glance  from  under  that  clear  brow 
Fell  backwards  cast.    Oh,  why  then  wouldst  thou  die  ? 
Thus  broke  the  answer:    "God  hath  other  fields 
Than  those  ye  know.    His  sunlight  and  his  rain 

Fall  not  alone  on  the  remembered  earth ; 
But  here,  as  there,  the  duteous  harvest  yields 
Reward  to  all  ;  and  I  am  glad  again, 

Tilling  the  land  of  this  my  newer  birth." 


FROM  GREEN  MOUNTAIN. 

I. 

WO  seas  our  eyes  beheld — one  dark,  one 

light ; 

And  one  above  the  other  ;  for  a  screen 
Of  billowy  cloud  lay,  level-poised,  between 
Ocean  and  sky,  in  undulation  white 
As  snows  of  Zembla.     Half-way  up  the  height 

That  caps  Mount  Desert,  spell-bound  by  the  scene, 
We  stood  and  marvelled.     Had  there  ever  been, 
Since  Israel's  pilgrim  march,  so  weird  a  sight  ? 
Meanwhile  the  sailors,  beating  to  and  fro 

On  shadowed  waters,  dreamed  not  of  the  still, 

Pellucid  beauty  of  that  upper  day  ; 
Their  captive  eyes  saw  only  from  below, 

While  we,  from  our  sheer  lookout  on  the  hill, 
Scanned  either  level,  happier-placed  than  they. 


FROM  GREEN  MOUNTAIN. 

II. 

RIEF  our  advantage  ;  presently  the  sun, 
Nearing  the  noon-mark,  gathered  all  his 

might, 

And  smote  those  vapors  till  they  broke  in  flight ; 
Not  hastily,  (for  panic  there  was  none,) 
But  with  slow  movement  eastward,  one  by  one, 
The  cloud  battalions  drifted  from  our  sight, 
Till  everywhere,  from  verge  to  verge,  was  light ; 
And  those  below  saw  clear,  as  we  had  done. 
God  shows  enfranchised  spirits,  such  as  thine, 
Dear  friend,  dear  brother,  who  beside  me  stood 

That  morning  on  the  mount,  both  sides  of  things 
The  dim,  the  bright ;   the  earthly,  the  divine. 
Spirits  in  shadow  see  but  one.     Oh,  would 
The  days  were  born  of  which  the  Sibyl  sings  ! 


43 


GARONDA.* 

[JEACE  to  this  house."     More  quick  than 

echoes  are, 

Attendant  voices  bring  the  sure  reply. 
"Peace,"  sings  the  brook.     "Peace,"  the  great 

fir-trees  sigh. 

"Peace,"  say  the  ancient  mountains  from  afar, — 
While  broods  above  their  purple  rim  the  star 
Earliest  to  trespass  on  the  evening  sky, 
As  if  intent  to  utter,  ere  she  die, 
A  blessing  earth  might  neither  make  nor  mar. 
Garonda,  to  these  benedictions  grand 

Would  I  mine  own  in  humble  sequence  add, — 
May  He  who  maketh  sorrowful,  yet  maketh  glad, 

Bless  thee  with  blessings  more  than  we  can  dream; 
"Gate  of  the  mountains,"  opened  by  that  hand, 
Thou  a  Gate  Beautiful  shah  grow  to  seem. 


*  "Garonda"  —  Gate  of  the  Mountains ;  a  country- 
house  overlooking  the  Adirondacks. 


44- 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

OT  like  the  alchemist,  in  mystic  cell 
Attent  on  transmutation,  make  we  bold 
By  sudden  touch  to  startle  into  gold 
What  common  were,  did  not  such  stroke  compel. 
But,  as  the  wand  of  evening  knows  full  well 
How  from  slant  sunbeams  when  the  clouds  are 

rolled 

Against  the  West  to  draw  the  tints  they  hold, 
(Hues  unresponsive  to  noon's  feebler  spell,) 
So  from  the  wealth  of  half  a  hundred  years, 

The  stored-up  love  of  household  and  of  kin, 
The  total  of  all  wedlock's  joys  and  tears, 

Time  lures,  to-day,  the  lustre  hid  within. 
What  slumbered  wakes,  what  latent  was  appears, 
For,  lo,  these  lives  have  alway  golden  been. 


45 


CHRISTMAS  ISLAND. 

A  DREAM. 


CHRISTMAS   ISLAND. 

A  DREAM. 

ROM  ridge  to  ridge  of  ocean,  all  day  long, 
Lifted  and  pushed  by  giant  arms  and  strong 
Full  puffs  of  giant  breath,  our  ship  had  sped 
With  only  blue  beneath  and  blue  o'erhead. 
Then,  as  I  westward  gazing  watched  the  day 
In  brightening  color  burn  its  life  away, 
My  thought  ran  out  beyond  the  twilight  rim 
Breathed  into  shape  half  canzonet,  half  hymn. 

I. 

Ah  !  whither  moves  the  world,  and  who  is  King? 

I  hear  the  click  of  wheels,  and  mark 
The  solemn  pendulum  of  Nature  swing 

From  dark  to  light,  from  light  to  dark, 
And  wonder  who  is  King  ? 

49 


II. 

Ah  !   whither  moves  the  world,  and  who  is  King  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  mountains,  stands  the  throne 
In  some  high  solitude  where  eagle's  wing 

Or  the  wild  goat's  quick  foot  alone 
May  find  the  hidden  thing  ? 

III. 

Ah  !   whither  moves  the  world,  and  who  is  King  ? 

Thou  watchful  star  that  dost  patrol 
The  regions  of  the  twilight,  canst  thou  bring, 

Through  heavenly  space,  my  vision  to  the  goal 
Of  earth's  long  wandering? 

IV. 

Ah  !   whither  moves  the  world,  and  who  is  King  ? 

Doth  iron  Doom  the  sceptre  keep? 
Or  golden  Love  ?     No  answer  can  I  wring 

From  earth  or  sky.     Mysterious  Deep, 
Dost  thou  know  who  is  King  ? 


Scarce  had  the  sea-breeze  snatched  the  questioning  cry, 
Before  a  voice,  not  loud,  but  wondrous  clear, 

And  heavenly  sweet  withal,  gave  back  reply, — 

"  Voyager,  take  heart.    The  Hand  that  holds  the  ' 

sphere 
Shall  wisely  guide.    The  night  is  deepening  here ; 

But  pass  with  me  yon  faint  horizon's  ring 

And  thine  own  eyes  shall  tell  thee  who  is  King." 

Eager  to  catch  the  fashion  of  a  lip 

Whose  spoken  word  such  gentle  trespass  made, 

I  instant  turned  ;  when,  lo,  the  laboring  ship, 
As  if  a  mystic  spell  were  on  her  laid, 
Began  straightway  to  shrivel,  shrink,  and  fade, 

And  masts  and  spars  and  shrouds  and  smoke-stack  all, 

As  in  a  sick  man's  dream,  grew  small,  and  small ; 

Until  within  a  tiny  skiff  alone, 

Sail  heading  towards  the  East,  I  seemed  to  be, 

How  moved  I  know  not,  up  that  pathway  strewn 
With  spangles  of  bright  silver,  largess,  She, 
Empress  of  waters,  Queen  of  oceans  three, 

Flings  from  her  chariot  to  the  subject  waves, 

To  charm  them  to  forget  themselves  her  slaves. 

51 


Thus  o'er  the  darkling  reaches  of  the  sea 

We  shot  our  moonlit  course,  the  Voice  and  I, 

For  though  he  spake  no  other  word  to  me, 
By  subtlest  sympathy  I  knew  him  nigh, 
As  friends  who  sit  and  watch  the  embers  die 

On  some  old  hearth- stone,  all  the  closer  feel, 

While  night  and  silence  slowly  on  them  steal. 

Full  on  the  bow  at  last  rose  up  a  cliff, — 
An  island-cliff,  majestic,  solemn,  lone  : 

And  much  I  marvelled,  Would  my  fragile  skiff 
Be  shattered  on  the  inhospitable  stone, 
And  all  my  hope  of  looking  on  the  throne 

Be  shattered  too,  and  I,  a  shipwrecked  thing, 

Perish  forlorn,  nor  ever  see  the  King  ? 

Then,  as  I  braced  me  for  the  approaching  shock, 
And  through  the  dimness  strained  my  eyes  to  see 

If  anywhere  the  edges  of  the  rock 

Gave  hope  of  foothold  or  escape  for  me  ; 
A  sudden  clearness  set  my  vision  free, 

And  I  beheld  the  cliff's  huge  frontage  wrought 

With  carven  imagery  more  fair  than  thought. 


A  palace-temple  builded  high  it  stood, 

And  all  its  lines  shone  lucid  through  the  night, 

Pouring  their  radiance  o'er  the  unquiet  flood, 
Until  the  very  wave-tops,  'neath  the  might 
Of  a  new  influence  enchanted  quite, 

Sank  down,  content  to  lie  and  bask  awhile 

In  slumbrous  idleness  before  the  isle. 

Then  had  my  eye  full  leisure  to  take  in 

The  marvellous  beauty  of  the  fabric's  plan, 

Though  still  I  failed  to  guess  had  Nature  been 
The  easy  builder  there,  or  toilsome  Man. 
In  such  wild  symmetry  the  outline  ran, 

Surely  the  forest's  Architect,  I  said, 

Hath  done  this  thing,  yet  Man  remembered. 

Meantime,  my  boat  across  that  tranquil  space 
Shot  gently-swift  towards  where  the  eye  looked 
through 

A  porch  magnifical,  in  all  the  grace 
Of  just  proportion  lifted,  and  to  view 
Like  rock-ribbed  Staffa's  basalt  avenue, 

Whence  issuing  with  wild  scream  the  frightened  gull 

Seeks  calm  lona  o'er  the  waves  of  Mull. 

53 


But  on  the  moment  when  the  pointed  prow 
Touched  soft  the  threshold  of  that  portal  fair, 

The  Voice  that  had  been  silent  until  now 
Bade  me  alight  and  climb  the  gradual  stair 
Which  in  and  upwards  rose  before  me  there. 

"For  soon,"  he  said,  "thy  footsteps  must  I  bring 

Into  the  very  presence  of  the  King. ' ' 

Then  quickly  I  alighted,  and  I  clomb, 

Half-sad,  half-glad,  the  stair,  ascending  slow, 

In  tremulous  joy  as  one  who  to  his  home 

Comes  from  long  absence,  fever-sick  to  know 
Whether  there  wait  within  some  deadening  blow 

Of  grief  untold,  or  whether  he  shall  hear 

The  children's  laughter  ringing  loud  and  clear. 

When  to  the  topmost  step  I  came  at  last, 

Two  massive  doors  in  curious  sculpture  wrought 

Swung  slowly  on  their  hinges,  and  I  passed 
Within  that  place.     Ah,  how  shall  I  be  taught 
To  tell  in  language  of  this  earth  the  thought 

With  which  that  vision  did  my  being  bless, 

Of  pure,  unutterable  loveliness. 

54 


No  pavement  of  insensate  stone  I  trod, 
But  smooth  and  soft  and  beautiful  it  lay, 

An  emerald-hued,  sweet,  daisy-sprinkled  sod, 
Most  like  the  flooring  of  that  minster  gray 
Whose  roofless  walls  stand  open  to  the  day, 

Whilst  chattering  rooks  the  ivied  windows  throng, 

And  from  the  Wye  comes  back  the  boatman's  song. 

From  out  the  turf  sprang  tree-like  pillars  tall, 
Whose  topmost  branches  interlaced  o'erhead, 

Made  the  high  ceiling  of  that  wondrous  hall, 
So  high,  the  firmament  itself  outspread 
Scarce  higher  seems  when  on  his  mountain  bed 

Amidst  the  heather  doth  the  shepherd  lie 

And  wakeful  watch  night's  golden  flock  go  by. 

Through  all  the  place  there  floated  mystic  light, 
That  seemed  not  born  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star ; 

And  whatsoever  thing  it  touched,  grew  bright 
As  the  snow-caps  on  distant  mountains  are, 
When  up  their  outer  slope  the  hidden  car 

Of  rosy  morning  clambers,  and  the  pale, 

Chill  speftres  of  the  mist  desert  the  vale. 
55 


And  in  and  out  among  the  pillars  walked 

Groups  of  fair  forms  who  seemed  familiar  there, 

And  to  each  other  in  low  murmurs  talked, 
And  cheerily  the  birds  sang  every  where  ; 
And  all,  I  knew,  were  joyous,  for  the  air, 

Laden  with  gladness,  redolent  of  balm, 

Into  the  very  soul  breathed  mystic  calm. 

No  painted  blazonry  the  windows  held, 
But  out  through  broad  fenestral  arches  ran 

Deep  vistas  rich  with  all  the  life  of  eld, 

So  ordered  that  the  curious  eye  might  scan 
Whate'er  had  happened  since  the  world  began, 

And  piftured  see,  in  true  perspective  cast, 

The  long  tumultuous  epic  of  the  past. 

Here  frowned  the  rough  beginnings  of  the  earth, 
Grim  monsters,  growths  of  that  forgotten  day 

When  first  the  brute  came  hideous  to  birth, 

And  wallowing,  gorged  with  surfeit  of  the  prey, 
Dragon  and  saurian  'mid  the  rushes  lay, 

To  watch  dull-eyed  the  burdened  storm-cloud  creep 

Angry  and  low  across  the  untraversed  deep. 
56 


Elsewhere  beheld,  embattled  armies  met, 

And  squadrons  wheeled,  and  pennons  shook  afar  ; 

Here  flashed  the  lance  and  there  the  bayonet ; 

Now  Greek,  now  Roman,  drave  the  conquering  car ; 
And  now  the  sword  beat  down  the  scimitar, 

And  through  the  cities  of  the  sacred  coast 

The  mailed  crusader  smote  the  Paynim  host. 

Then  was  I  sad  to  see  how  all  the  life 

That  had  been  lived  on  earth  was  full  of  woe ; 

How  brute  with  brute,  and  man  with  man,  at  strife 
Had  wrought  themselves  perpetual  overthrow ; 
And  the  tears  started.    "Shall  I  ever  know 

Pain's  mystery?"  I  asked,  in  querulous  tone. 

"Peace,"  said  the  Voice,  "thou  hast  not  seen  the 
throne. ' ' 

With  that,  I  turned  me  from  the  pi&ured  past, 
The  griefs  and  glories  of  all  time  gone  by, 

And  eastward  up  that  presence-chamber  vast 
Expeftant  gazed,  when  burst  upon  my  eye 
The  throne  itself;  yes,  lifted  up  and  high 

There  stood  the  throne,  with  cloud-like  glories  piled, 

And  on  it  sat  the  King, —  a  little  child. 
57 


A  little  child  of  form  supremely  fair, 
All  kingliness  plain  writ  upon  his  face, 

I  could  not  choose  but  give  Him  homage  there  ; 
One  hand  I  saw  a  lily-sceptre  grace, 
And  one  was  lift  in  blessing  on  the  place. 

Close  to  his  feet  a  tender  lamb  had  crept, 

The  lion's  tawny  whelp  beside  it  slept. 

As  wells  the  sea  in  cool  Acadia's  bay, 

With  sudden  impulse,  full,  majestic,  strong, 

Each  nook  and  hollow  flooding  on  its  way, 

Swept,  while  I  looked,  an  affluent  tide  of  song. 
Far  off  the  choirs  began  it,  then  the  throng 

Beneath  the  arches  gathered  caught  the  strain 

And  the  loud  antiphon  rolled  back  amain. 


SONG. 

The  weary  world  at  war, 

Too  sad  to  sing, 
Knows  not  how,  throned  afar, 

The  little  child  is  King  ; 

58 


But  frightened  kneels  to  pay 

A  worship  cold 
To  giant  hands  that  may 

Such  reins  of  empire  hold. 

{Antipbon.} 
O  foolish  world,  to  lie 

And  dream  so  ill  ! 
O  hapless  man,  whose  eye 

Such  cheating  visions  fill  ! 
So,  singing  still,  we  pray, 

And  praying  sing, 
Haste,  Child,  the  golden  day 

When  all  shall  know  Thee  King. 

The  tramp  of  armies  shakes 

The  trembling  earth, 
From  field  and  fortress  breaks 

A  smothered  flame  to  birth  ; 
Across  our  tranquil  light 

The  flashes  fly, 
As  on  a  summer's  night 

Pale,  voiceless  lightnings  die. 

59 


The  lips  that  curse  shall  bless. 

Sad  earth,  at  length 
Thou  shalt  see  gentleness 

O'ermaster  strength, 
Thy  multitudinous  voice 

Our  anthem  ring  : 
Rejoice  !   Rejoice  !   Rejoice  ! 

The  little  child  is  King. 


Then  to  their  rope  the  laughing  sailors  turned 
And  hove  the  log,  while  all  the  furrow  burned 
In  phosphorescent  splendor,  and  the  white 
Auroral  spear-tops  hedged  the  North  with  light. 


60 


ADDITIONAL  VERSES. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LINCOLN. 

HE  father  of  a  people  sleeps  ; 

His  patient  toil  is  done. 
For  us  accustomed  watch  he  keeps 
No  more  beneath  the  sun. 

He  dealt  in  mercy  with  his  foes ; 

He  made  the  bondman  free. 
Lord,  as  he  did  it  unto  those 

He  did  it  unto  Thee. 

He  braved  the  long  tempestuous  night ; 

He  watched  the  reddening  sky ; 
He  tasted  viftory  with  the  light, 

Then  bowed  his  head  to  die. 

With  booming  gun  and  funeral  bell 
We've  borne  him  to  his  grave, 

Through  the  broad  land  he  loved  so  well, 
The  land  he  wrought  to  save. 
63 


Ye  prairie  winds,  breathe  low  his  dirge  ! 

Frown,  all  ye  mountains  gray  ! 
With  mournful  cadence,  mighty  surge, 

Beat  the  long  coasts  to-day  ! 

Our  tongues  are  stilled ;  we  only  know 
The  Judge  of  all  doth  right. 

With  tears  the  precious  seed  we  sow ; 
Lord,  make  our  harvest  white  ! 


64 


THE  LEXINGTON  CENTENARY. 

1775-1875. 

QUEEN  and  crowned,  who  was  a  peasant 

girl, 

"This  greatness  wearies  me,"  she  sighs; 
"I  will  forget  a  little  while  my  state, 
And,  hiding  from  the  eyes 

That  watch  the  throne,  will  creep 
To  where,  in  trellised  sleep, 
The  darling  cottage  of  my  childhood  lies. 

"I  thirst  to  taste  the  water  of  the  brook, 

To  track  once  more  the  wildwood  ways  ; 
My  ear  is  hungry  for  the  note  of  birds 
That  sang  in  those  old  days ; 
And  I  would  breathe  anew 
The  wholesome  airs  that  blew 
Across  the  yellow  tassels  of  the  maize." 

O  Queenly  Land  !     O  Mother  of  our  love  ! 
Look  back  to-day  beyond  the  years, 

65 


Look  back  to  that  sweet  April  of  thy  youth 
Changeful  with  hopes  and  fears ; 

A  village  maid  once  more, 

Thy  song  of  gladness  pour, 
And  lift  those  clear  blue  eyes  undimmed  by  tears. 

Then,  turning  from  this  home  where  thou  wast 

born, 

Light-hearted  take  again  the  weight 
Of  gems  and  thorns  a  century  hath  made 
Thy  costly  crown  of  state. 
Benignant,  gently-strong, 
Rule  o'er  us  late  and  long, 
Thou  lowly  one  to  whom  God  said,  "Be  great." 


66 


ATHANASIUS  CONTRA  MUNDUM. 

HE  world  against  me,  I  against  the  world." 
Strange  words  for  him  who  just  now  stood 
On  Alexandria's  throne  and  hurled 
His  thunders  as  he  would. 
But  rock  is  not  less  rock,  though  forced  at  last 

To  fall  before  the  beating  sea ; 
Nor  may  I  be  the  less  myself,  though  cast 
Away  from  majesty. 

God's  truth  I  stand  on,  can  I  need  a  throne? 

Or  bishop's  vesture,  if  I  feel 
His  mercy  wrap  me  with  a  warmth  its  own 

While  at  his  feet  I  kneel  ? 
No,  let  them  drive  me  thrice  again  from  sway, 

As  they,  ere  this,  three  rimes  have  driven, 
So  but  the  Lord  be  at  my  side  alway 

I  will  deem  exile  heaven. 

They  call  me  haughty,  of  opinion  proud, 
Untaught  to  bend  a  stubborn  will ; 
67 


Ah,  little  dreams  the  shallow-hearted  crowd 

What  thoughts  this  bosom  fill, 
What  loneliness  this  outer  strength  doth  hide, 

What  longing  lies  beneath  this  calm 
For  human  sympathy  so  long  untried, 

Earth's  one  refreshful  balm. 

But,  more  than  sympathy,  the  truth  I  prize  ; 

Above  my  friendships  hold  I  God, 
And  stricken  be  these  feet  ere  they  despise 

The  path  their  Master  trod. 
So  let  my  banner  be  again  unfurled, 

Again  its  cheerless  motto  seen  : 
"The  world  against  me,  I  against  the  world." 

Judge  thou,  dear  Christ,  between. 

In  exile,  A.D.   362. 


68 


THE  LAST  DENIAL. 

"  Venio  Romam  iterum  crucifigi" 

EATH  to  the  Christians."    So  the  ecM  read. 

No  wonder  fear  on  all  the  city  fell, 
No  wonder  if  the  frightened  people  fled, 
Remembering  the  Caesar's  vengeance  well. 
But  shame  that  Simon,  named  of  Christ  "the  Rock," 

That  he,  their  leader  and  their  head, 
Basely  succumbing  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Should,  panic-struck,  have  fled. 

But  list  what  fell.    He  scarce  a  league  had  gone, — 

Shame  on  his  cheek  and  terror  in  his  pace, — 
When  suddenly  a  light  about  him  shone, 

And  the  old  Master  met  him  face  to  face. 
"Lord,  is  it  thou  ? "  the  astonied  Peter  cried. 

"And  tell  me,  why  that  look  of  pain?" 
"To  Rome  I  go,"  a  mournful  voice  replied, 

"To  taste  my  cross  again." 
69 


"It  shall  not  be,  dear  Christ,  it  shall  not  be," 

And  a  fire  flashed  beneath  those  eyebrows  grim. 
"Long  since,  my  Saviour  bore  His  cross  for  me  ; 

Joy  were  it  mine  to  bear  my  cross  for  Him. 
"Oh,  think  not,  Lord,  I  have  forgotten  quite 

The  lie,  the  cock-crowing,  the  look, 
Or  all  the  terror  of  that  woful  night 

When  I  my  faith  forsook." 

Then,  turning  slowly,  steadily  away, 

That  strong  disciple  set  his  face  towards  Rome. 
"Farewell,"  he  murmured,  "we  must  part  to-day, 

To-morrow  greet  me  in  thy  Father's  home." 
Enough.     You  know  the  story  of  his  death. 

Bravely  he  met  his  bitter  cross  ; 
Silent  he  suffered ;  calmly  yielded  breath. 

The  churches  mourned  their  loss. 


70 


TO   DR.  ALLEN   ON  THE   COMPLETION 
OF  HIS  LIFE  OF  PHILLIPS  BROOKS. 

HEN  Michelangelo  the  great 

His  Moses  wrought  of  stone, 
The  perfeft  image  seemed  to  wait 
One  gift  and  one  alone. 

"  Speak  !  "  said  the  master.     No  reply 

The  marbled  silence  broke. 
"Speak  !  "   but  the  half-indignant  cry 

No  tell-tale  echo  woke. 

"Speak  !  "     For  a  moment  poised  in  air 

The  trembling  chisel  hung  ; 
Then  at  the  statue,  full  and  fair, 

His  weapon-tool  he  flung. 


A  happier  fortune,  Allen,  thine  ; 

A  defter  artist  thou, — 
Not  only  skilled  to  match  the  line 

Of  moulded  mouth  and  brow, 


Not  only  masterful  to  tell 

What  only  spirits  knew, 
And  make  the  image  wield  the  spell 

The  living  presence  threw  ; 

But  bold  to  touch  the  lips  which  slept 
And  charm  them  to  let  flow 

The  torrent-rush  that  from  them  leapt 
In  loved  years  long  ago  : 

A  torrent-rush,  yet  crystal-clear 
As  sunlight  washed  by  rain. 

O  Death,  but  it  is  good  to  hear 
That  silvery  voice  again  ! 

So,  first  of  artists,  here  's  to  thee  ! 

Thy  Winter's  Tale  we  praise 
As  his  who  waked  Hermione 

In  old  Sicilian  days. 


HARVARD. 

LLUSTRIOUS  Mother,  nourished  at  thy 

knee 

In  the  far  years  shall  children's  children  be. 
Teach  them  the  talisman  of  deathless  youth, 
The  sweet  child-temper  docile  to  the  truth. 
He  studies  best  whose  manhood  longest  keeps 
The  passionate  thrill  that  in  the  boy's  blood  leaps ; 
Eyes  that  look  out,  unconscious  of  their  glow, 
Shy  to  be  known,  shall  soonest  all  things  know  ; 
Into  the  ear  that  listens  and  is  taught 
Shall  come  the  music  of  God's  whispered  thought, 
And  him  the  beatific  vision  bless 
Whose  lips  the  hunger  and  the  thirst  confess. 


73 


MIDNIGHT  ON  MANSFIELD  MOUNTAIN. 

S  Titans  grandly  throned  on  high, 

With  rock  to  lean  on,  rock  to  tread, 
The  shadowy  world  half-guessed  below, 
A  cloudless  firmament  o'erhead, 
We  sat  and  watched  the  Huntress  Queen, 

Her  raiment  as  a  vestal's  white, 
Girded  with  retinue  of  stars, 

Walk  through  the  spaces  of  the  night. 

The  breeze  had  died  at  set  of  sun, 

Deep  calm  clad  all  things,  flower  and  star. 
Through  the  dim  mists  across  Champlain 

The  sleeping  mountains  loomed  afar. 
Oh  !   why  not  to  the  soul  of  man 

At  such  an  hour  come  calm  and  peace  r 
Why  breathes  there  not  a  voice  to  bid 

The  restlessness  within  him  cease  ? 

I  know  not ;  only  this  I  know  : 

A  gloom  around  the  heart  is  curled 

74 


Whenever,  more  than  is  our  wont, 
We  feel  the  mystery  of  the  world. 

The  smouldering  of  the  sunset  sky, 
The  break  of  waters  on  the  beach, 

The  murmur  of  the  woods  at  noon, — 
An  untold  sadness  lurks  in  each. 

We  feel  because  we  cannot  feel ; 

We  know  our  helplessness  to  know ; 
We  ask,  but  answer  cometh  not, 

Is  Nature  friend  to  us,  or  foe  ? 
O  Mother,  fair  as  thou  art  sad, 

O  Mother,  sad  as  thou  art  fair, 
Lift  the  dark  curtain's  corner  once 

And  show  us  what  thou  hidest  there 


75 


SIMON  PETER. 

•Simon  Peter  saith  unto  them,  I  go  a-fishing." 

LIKE  those  words  rough  Peter  spake 
That  summer's  evening,  by  the  lake, 
When  all  the  rest  their  work  forsake, 


And  only  wander  to  and  fro 

With  moans  along  the  beach,  to  show 

By  outward  motions  inward  woe. 

All  this,  thought  Peter,  is  but  vain. 

We  cannot  call  to  earth  again 

The  King  who  hath  gone  home  to  reign. 

Not  thus  should  we  lament  him  dead, 
Who,  ere  he  left  us,  gently  said, 
"Be  ye  not  sad,  but  comforted." 

With  honest  labor,  day  by  day, 
I'll  seek  to  drive  this  grief  away 
Until  the  Master  points  my  way. 
76 


"I  go  a-fishing,"  then  quoth  he. 

His  searching  look  struck  through  them.    "We," 

They  answered,  "also  go  with  thee." 

And  so  unto  their  toil  they  went, 
And  ere  the  night  was  wholly  spent 
Joy  took  the  place  of  discontent. 

For,  just  at  dawn,  upon  the  sand, 
They  see  their  risen  Master  stand, 
And  hear  Him  call  them  to  the  land. 

That  voice  it  is  so  loved  of  yore  ; 
He  works  a  miracle  once  more ; 
He  eats  with  them  upon  the  shore  ; 

He  tells  them  of  the  coming  years  ; 

He  feeds  their  hopes,  He  chides  their  fears ; 

His  love  shall  wipe  away  all  tears. 

Like  those  disciples,  oft  have  I  — 
When  cares  seemed  heavy,  danger  nigh, 
And  only  clouds  athwart  the  sky  — 

77 


Stood  still  and  said,  "Now  all  is  o'er, 
"My  life  goes  wrong,  my  heart  is  sore, 
For  me  there  can  be  joy  no  more." 

But  then  I  seem  to  hear  anew 

Those  words  of  Peter,  brave  and  true, 

And  stout  at  heart  my  way  pursue  ; 

My  way  pursue,  though  dim  it  be, 
And  oft,  ere  morning  lights  the  sea, 
Cometh  my  Lord  and  blesseth  me. 


THE  SURGEONS  AT  BULL  RUN. 

ilTRANGE  work  was  theirs  ;  —  upon  the 

edge  of  battle, 

For  hospital,  a  gray  old  church  of  stone, 
Without,  the  batteries'  roar,  the  muskets'  rattle, 
Within,  around  them,  pain's  low  monotone. 

Through  aisles  where  never  hurried  step  hath  sounded, 
Where  men  have  walked  with  solemn,  downward 
eye, 

Booted  and  spurred  their  comrades  bear  the  wounded, 
Or  lay  them  down,  perchance  unwatched,  to  die. 

Meanwhile,  these  bitter  agonies  assuaging, 
The  tireless  surgeons  labor  'mid  the  din, 

Nor  all  the  tumult  mad  about  them  raging 

Shakes  aught  the  calm  that  sits  enthroned  within. 

But  hark  !    The  battle  turns  !    The  foe  is  on  us  ! 

A  warning  voice  shouts  hoarsely  in  the  porch, 
"  Fly,  surgeons,  fly  !    The  enemy  's  upon  us  ! 

They  point  their  howitzers  against  the  church. 

79 


"Quick,  fly  !    The  drums,  you  hear  what  they  are 
beating  ! 

Haste  !    Time  is  short  !    Those  guns  begin  to  play  !" 
This  answer  only  follows  them  retreating  : 

ff  We  cannot  leave  our  wounded,  come  what  may." 

Brave  words  and  true.    No  knight  of  ancient  story 
E'er  blazoned  lordlier  on  his  dinted  shield, 

No  world- watched  conqueror,  athirst  for  glory, 
E'er  spake  more  proudly  on  victorious  field. 

Nor  fell  their  sound  uncaught  by  the  immortals  ; 

But,  doubt  ye  not,  bright-winged  ones,  standing 

near, 
Bore  up  with  echoings  to  the  heavenly  portals 

Your  words  they  heard  so  grandly  uttered  here. 

And  through  all  years,  whatever  may  betide  you, 
Though  blows  fall  thick,  and  evil  seem  the  day, 

One,  the  great  Healer,  still  shall  stand  beside  you, — 
He  never  leaves  his  wounded,  come  what  may. 


80 


SAINT  CRISPIN. 

HE  court  is  narrow,  close,  and  deep 

Where  on  my  bench  I  sew  and  sew  ; 
^^    All  round  the  walls  rise  dark  and  steep, 

Brick  here,  brick  there  —  above,  below  ; 
On  every  side  brick  mocks  my  eye, 

But  up  between  two  chimneys  tall 
There  shines  a  little  patch  of  sky, 

And  that  my  pleasure-ground  I  call. 

Oh,  when  the  sun  will  only  shine, 

There's  not  a  man  the  city  through 
Whose  heart  beats  merrier  than  mine 

As  here  I  sit  and  watch  the  blue. 
For,  if  there  sail  no  cloud  across, 

I  think  how  deep  the  heavens  are ; 
How  bright,  how  pure ;  and  what  a  loss 

It  were  to  never  travel  there. 

But,  if  there  come  a  sun-lit  cloud, 
Then  greater  joy  is  mine  to  trace 

Si 


The  foldings  of  each  snowy  shroud, 
The  changes  of  each  giant  face. 

Anon  the  cloud  takes  on  the  form 
Of  lofty  castle-walls,  and  then 

The  chill  old  blood  within  grows  warm 
In  thinking  of  the  deeds  of  men. 

Sometimes  dim  features  I  descry 

That  mind  me  of  a  face  long  dead  ; 
And  once  there  stood  out  on  the  sky 

The  maid  I  loved  but  might  not  wed. 
Again  a  great  cloud-cross  I  see, 

And  almost  trace  the  form  it  bore  ; 
Oh,  then  I  know  there's  love  for  me, 

In  spite  of  all  I  lost  before. 

And  thus,  though  close  the  court  and  deep 

Where  toil  I  on,  day  after  day, 
Natheless  I  yet  contrive  to  keep 

One  joy  no  man  may  take  away. 
For  God,  who  rules  us  with  his  hand, 

And  as  He  will  bestoweth  store ; 
Although  He  gave  the  rich  his  land 

Still  keep  the  blue  heavens  for  his  poor. 


SAINT  DOROTHY. 

A  Her  mi? 's  Story. 

ULL  a  score  of  Springs  have  blossomed, 

Full  a  score  of  Summers  died, 
Since  the  vision  —  so  they  called  him  — 

Since  the  angel  left  my  side. 
And  you  long  to  hear  the  story  ? 

And  you  fain  would  have  me  tell 
Why  I  fled  yon  gallant  city, 

Why  I  love  this  rough-hewn  cell  ? 
Sit  thee  down  then  here  beside  me, 
See,  the  fern-leaves  still  are  wet ; 
Full  an  hour  the  cliff  will  shade  us, 
For  the  sun  is  early  yet. 

Strangely  like  this  heavenly  morning 
Smiled  the  morning,  years  ago, 

When,  beside  an  open  window, 
In  the  noisy  street  below, 

'Mid  my  parchments  piled  and  scattered 

83 


Conning  deep  a  cherished  scheme, 
Sat  I,  folded  in  the  richness 

Of  a  young  man's  morning  dream. 
Many  a  client  by  the  threshold, 

Watching  for  my  leisure,  stood, 
But  my  heart  was  elseway  busy, 

And  I  bade  them  wait  my  mood. 
I  would  build  a  stately  villa 

Far  away  without  the  walls ; 
I  would  feed  its  lawns  with  fountains ; 

I  would  crowd  with  art  its  halls. 
There,  with  comrades  fitly  chosen, 

Rare  delight  my  soul  should  take, 
Peaceful  as  the  changeless  image 

Painted  on  an  Autumn  lake. 
What  should  care  I  then  for  clients, 

Dingy  rolls,  and  forum's  strife? 
Haste,  oh  haste,  ye  blest  immortals, 

Haste  to  me  this  golden  life  ! 

Dreaming  thus,  lo  !  on  a  sudden, 

Down  the  highway,  stern  and  hard, 
Saw  I,  marching  full  before  me, 


Towards  the  gate,  the  prefedVs  guard. 
Coldly  gleamed  their  burnished  corselets, 

Whilst  amid  them,  raised  on  high, 
Shone  the  white  robe  of  a  maiden 

They  were  bearing  out  to  die. 
Then  bethought  I  't  was  the  Christian 

I  had  seen  adjudged  her  doom, 
Yestereven,  for  refusing 

Homage  to  the  gods  of  Rome. 
"  Bow  to  Caesar  !    Worship  Caesar  !  " 

Fierce  had  yelled  the  throng  about. 
"  Worship  God  !  "  went  forth  her  answer, 

Clearly  rung  above  the  shout. 
I  had  stood  there  through  the  trial, 

And  remembered  to  have  heard 
How  the  maiden,  when  they  asked  her 

What  should  yield  her  death  reward, 
Answered,  "  He,  my  Lord  and  Saviour, 

Whom  I  serve  and  whom  I  love, 
Keeps  for  all  his  meek  and  faithful 

Gardens  in  the  skies  above. 
There,  'mid  groves  of  golden  fruitage, 

Flowers  that  bloom  and  never  fall, 

85 


Walk  with  palms  the  saints  who  followed 

Here  on  earth  their  Master's  call." 
Loudly  laughed  the  mob  to  hear  her, 

Loudly  laughed  I  with  the  rest, 
But  she  only  gazed  the  keener 

Towards  the  cloud-bank  in  the  West ; 
And  when  he  who  sat  to  judge  her 

Cried,  "To-morrow  morn  she  dies  !  " 
Full  upon  her  face  the  sunset 

Flashed  from  out  the  crimson  skies. 

Yes,  'twas  she,  and  I,  to  scoff  her  — 

Cruel  are  the  hearts  of  men  — 
Called  from  out  my  open  window, 

Called  to  her  who  passed  me  then, 
"Maiden  fair,  I  prythee  send  me, 

When  you've  won  your  martyr's  prize, 
Fruit  and  flowers  from  the  garden 

Blooming  there  beyond  the  skies." 
Turned  she  then  a  moment  towards  me, 

And  the  roses  tinged  her  cheek, 
As  she  answered,  "Yea,  good  master, 

I  will  send  you  what  you  seek." 
86 


This  was  morning,  early  morning, — 

But  the  hours  went  idly  on, 
Till  it  came  the  time  for  feasting, 

Nigh  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Then,  as  I  with  gay  companions 

Lay  and  sipped  the  Chian  rare, 
Lo  !   as  true  as  we  are  living, 

Came  and  stood  beside  me  there, 
Clothed  in  white,  a  youth  angelic, 

With  a  brightness  in  his  eye 
Such  as  almost  seemed  reflected 

Downward  from  the  beaming  sky. 
In  his  hand  a  golden  basket 

Held  he,  most  divinely  wrought, 
Piled  with  fruit  and  decked  with  lilies 

Rich  beyond  a  painter's  thought. 
"Eat,"  said  he.     "A  friend  hath  sent  them" — 

Then  it  flashed  upon  me  straight, 
How  the  maiden,  in  the  morning, 

Bade  me  for  her  promise  wait. 
Tempted  by  unearthly  longings, 

With  a  hand  that  shook  for  awe, 
Chose  I  then  a  purple  cluster, 
87 


Fairest  of  the  fruits  I  saw  ; 
Tasted  —  Oh,  that  moment's  rapture, 

Oh,  that  vision,  when  the  skies, 
Rolling  back  their  gates  of  azure, 

Burst  in  fulness  on  my  eyes  ! 
There,  with  steps  that  weirdly  glided 

Like  the  moonlight  on  the  sea, 
Walked  the  maiden,  and  beside  her 

One  whose  face  was  hid  from  me. 
All  around  them  bloomed  the  lilies, 

All  above  them  gleamed  the  fruits, 
While  the  clusters  'mid  the  branches 

Mocked  the  flowers  about  the  roots. 
All  the  beauty  she  had  painted, 

When  she  spake  the  eve  before, 
Waiting  for  the  cruel  judgment, — 

All  was  there  —  and  more,  more,  more  ! 

Swiftly  passed  the  vision  from  me, 
Swiftly  closed  the  blue  o'erhead; 

Turning  then  to  thank  the  angel, 
Lo  !  my  heavenly  guest  was  fled  ! 


Here  my  story  ends,  good  stranger. 

Dost  thou  wonder  now,  I  pray, 
Why  I  left  yon  gallant  city, 

Why  I  love  these  rocks  of  gray  ? 
Dost  thou  wonder?    Then  I  tell  thee 

I  have  pleasures  all  my  own, 
And  I  would  not  for  a  palace 

Yield  my  little  cell  of  stone. 
I  have  pleasures,  such  as  others, 

Wrapt  in  thoughts  of  meats  and  wine, 
Games  and  garlands,  homes  and  villas, 

Know  not  to  be  half  divine. 
True,  it  is  not  always  heaven, — 

Clouds  they  come  and  clouds  they  go ; 
But  a  single  flash  can  lighten 

Dreary  months  of  gloom  and  woe. 
So  I  dwell  here,  careful  only 

How  to  help  the  poor  and  ill, 
How  to  soothe  the  broken-hearted, 

How  to  bid  proud  waves  be  still, 
How  to  live  that  so,  in  dying, 

I  may  reap  her  sure  reward, 
'Mid  the  fields  that  bloom  for  ever 

Round  the  footsteps  of  our  Lord. 
89 


BEFORE  ORDINATION. 

HOU  callest,  Lord ;   I  hear  thy  voice, 

And  so  in  meekness  come. 
I  falter,  but  not  mine  the  choice: 
Thou  callest :   I  am  dumb. 


I  only  listen  :   I  am  least 

Of  all,  and  yet  I  know 
Thou  callest  me  to  be  thy  priest. 

I  argue  not.    I  go. 

All  through  the  past  thy  hand  has  led  ; 

Grant  me  this  day  to  feel 
That  hand  in  blessing  on  my  head, 

As  at  thy  feet  I  kneel. 

The  years  await  me.    What  they  hold 
Thou  knowest,  Lord,  not  I. 

On  every  side  the  cloud-banks  fold 
The  edges  of  my  sky. 

But  still  within  my  ears  there  rings 
One  voice,  and  only  one, — 

All  courage  to  my  heart  it  brings, — 
Thy  will,  my  God,  be  done. 
90 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 

]N  deck  at  even  it  is  good 

Alone  to  stand, 

And  in  the  cloud-piled  West  to  trace 
What  seems  a  land 
Where  thou  and  I  might  pillowed  lie 

Far  off  from  care, 

Could  I  but  take  the  glittering  wake 
And,  with  unfaltering  step,  speed  out  to  meet 
thee  there. 

From  West  to  East,  beneath  all  skies, 

By  day,  by  night, 
Astern  the  white-winged  sea-birds  keep 

Their  tireless  flight. 
Far,  far  behind  their  circles  wind, 

And  I  can  see 

They  are  the  sure  swift  prayers  and  pure 
Thy  constant  heart  hath  sent  to  keep  their  watch 

o'er  me. 

91 


Fly  back,  ye  birds,  fly  back,  fly  back 

Across  the  sea  ! 
Fly  home,  ye  patient  ones,  fly  home, 

With  words  for  me  ! 
Go  tell  my  love  how  all  things  move 

As  she  doth  pray  ; 

One  moment  rest  close  on  her  breast ; 
Then,  sea-birds,  poise  your  wings,  flash  sunshine, 

and  away. 


CRADLE-SONG. 

ABY  of  mine,  lie  still,  lie  still, 

Cover  those  little  blue  eyes  so  clear. 
Oh,  there's  many  the  lady  on  yonder  hill 
Who  would  give  me  her  necklace  in  change  for 
you,  dear. 

All  the  queen's  jewels  and  all  the  king's  gold 
Never  those  apple-bloom  cheeks  shall  buy ; 

Deepest  of  valleys  the  price  couldn't  hold, 
Not  if  they  piled  it  up  full  to  the  sky. 

What  are  you  dreaming  of,  clutching  my  hand, 
Tiny  lip  curling  and  dimples  down  deep  ? 

Who  are  the  friends  from  the  far-away  land 
That  come  here  each  morning  to  brighten  your 
sleep  ? 

Baby  of  mine,  lie  still,  lie  still ; 

Should  there  fall  aught  on  me  here  by  thy  side, 
Silvery  wings  of  the  angels  will 

Under  their  feathers  my  darling  hide. 

93 


THE  HILLSIDE  SCHOOL. 

HE  builders  of  the  elder  world, 

Beneath  forgotten  skies, 
Wrought  for  the  king  the  bravest  thing 
Their  cunning  could  devise ; 
And  proudly  from  her  lattice  leaned 

My  lady  gazing  down 
To  watch  the  smoke  that  curled  and  broke 
Above  the  straw-thatched  town. 

Our  palace  not  for  these  we  build, 

Not  for  the  few  or  one, 
For  each  and  all  we  plant  this  wall 

To  front  the  rising  sun ; 
For  each,  for  all,  for  rich,  for  poor, 

This  tuneful  belfry  rear, 
Whose  music  tells  of  her  who  dwells 

A  gracious  Mother  here. 

For  this  is  Wisdom's  hillside  home; 
To  her  we  yield  it  now, — 
94 


Her,  lowly-grand,  of  generous  hand, 

Clear  eye,  and  open  brow. 
And  while  these  strong  foundations  last, 

This  roof-tree  spreads  above, 
About  her  knee  shall  clustered  be 

The  children  of  her  love. 

Them  shall  she  teach  the  new-found  lore 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  star, 
Or  point  their  feet  adown  the  sweet 

Old  paths  that  lead  from  far. 
Them,  loosed  ajt  last,  her  mother-eye 

Shall  watch  their  journey  through, 
None  proud  as  she  they  proven  be 

Brave  sons  and  daughters  true. 


95 


SURSUM  CORD  A. 

E  brave  to  live.    Desponding  heart,  be 

strong, — 

Strong  to  submit,  to  trust,  to  wait ; 
Our  God  is  true,  although  his  times  be  long 

And  hope's  fulfillment  late. 
Hid  by  the  misty  curtain  from  thy  view, 

The  years  seem  boundless,  but  a  Hand 
Which  cannot  fail  shall  guide  thy  feet  all  through 
That  undiscovered  land. 

Make  not  of  work  a  labor.    God  is  good. 

What  strength  He  asks,  He  ready  stands  to  give. 
Less  by  their  fears,  more  by  their  love,  He  would 

Have  all  his  children  live. 
And  thee  He  loveth ;  stronger  love  is  not ; 

Earth  cannot  give  a  peace  so  deep. 
Then  calmly  live,  take  patiently  thy  lot, 

And  God  thy  spirit  keep. 


96 


ADVENT  HYMN. 

ORD  of  the  darkness  and  the  day, 
To  Thee  thy  waiting  people  pray  ; 
Perplexed,  assaulted,  hard-beset, 
Faithful  we  grasp  thy  promise  yet. 

Dimly  our  home-sick  eyes  descry 
The  signs  that  fleck  earth's  sunset  sky; 
But,  while  we  strive  to  read  aright, 
The  evening  deepens  into  night. 

Come,  Prince  of  life  !    Come,  even  so 
As  Thou  from  Olivet  didst  go  ; 
Make  good  the  word,  for  honor's  sake, 
The  twain  in  white  apparel  spake. 

With  cleansing  fire  our  work  to  try, 
Discerner  of  the  heart,  draw  nigh  ! 
Swing  East,  swing  West,  thy  winnowing  fan, 
Till  judgment  throughly  search  out  man. 

So  melts  at  last  the  twilight  gray ; 
So  broadens  luminous  the  day 
When,  stern  to  punish,  swift  to  bless, 
A  King  shall  reign  in  righteousness. 
97 


SANCTUARY  DOVES. 

NTO  the  half-built  church,  from  out  a  sky 

That  crimsoned  all  the  West, 
Came  mated  doves,  and  'mid  the  rafters  high 
Fashioned  their  simple  nest ; 
With  busy  beaks,  that  quickly  won  their  store, 
Gleaning  the  treasures  of  the  littered  floor. 

And  there,  through  all  the  work-days'  thrifty  round, 

Secure  from  touch  of  harm, 
The  brooding  mother  let  nor  sight  nor  sound 

Her  quietness  alarm ; 

But  gazing  downward  on  the  toil  and  stir, 
Watched  the  deft  hands  that  seemed  to  build  for  her. 

Within  the  temple's  wall,  —  though  incomplete, — 

My  soul  seek  thou  thy  rest, 
From  storms  a  covert,  refuge  from  the  heat, 

And  peace  that  none  molest. 
Dear  is  the  freedom  of  the  open  fields, 
But  freest  those  whose  nest  God's  roof- tree  shields. 


AN  ANNIVERSARY  IN  SAINT  PAUL'S 
CHAPEL,  EVE  OF  ALL  SAINTS', 

MDCCCLXXXII. 

ITHOUT,  on  all  the  air  a  breath  of  sadness, 

Dulled  skies,  a  fading  year ; 
Within,  a  presence  of  mysterious  gladness 
Filling  God's  house  with  cheer. 

Without,  the  hurrying  feet,  the  horse-hoofs  prancing, 

The  rush  that  will  not  cease ; 
Within,  a  grave  procession  slow  advancing 

To  clear-voiced  songs  of  peace. 

What  wonder  if  the  old  man's  footsteps  falter? 

His  eyes  behold  the  dead ! 
They  throng  him,  greet  him,  as  he  nears  the  altar 

Where  that  far  vow  was  said  — 

Vow  to  be  gentle,  patient,  tender-hearted, 

Vow  to  be  firm  and  true. 
He  hath  no  need,  ye  living  !  ye  departed  ! 

That  promise  to  renew. 

99 


Now  brimmed  with  pity,  now  with  courage  ardent 

The  plighted  word  to  keep, 
For  half  a  hundred  years  yon  eye  regardant 

Hath  shepherded  the  sheep. 

Father,  farewell  !    Ere  long,  in  heavenly  places, 

Beyond  the  changeful  years, 
Perchance  thou  shalt  these  voices  and  these  faces 

Remember  without  tears. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  AT  YADDO. •* 

FLED  the  city's  dusty  heat, 

The  swirl  and  stir  I  left  behind, 
And  far  to  northward  sought  retreat 
More  truly  to  my  mind. 

The  pines  my  lullaby  should  sing, 
From  senseless  noise  I  would  be  free, 

And  only  birds  and  brooks  should  bring 
Their  song  to  waken  me. 

And  so  it  comes  that  here,  to-day, 

In  Yaddo's  oriel-round  I  lie, 
And  letting  fancy  freely  stray 

Recall  that  old  July. 

For  these  are  sacred  fields  that  spread 
Their  daisy -sprinkled  carpet  here, 

And  yonder  height  once  felt  the  tread 
Of  feet  that  knew  no  fear. 

*  A   country-house  near  Saratoga,   with  a  distant  view  of  the 
scene  of  Burgoyne's  Surrender. 


That  darker  line  beyond  the  wood 
Tells  where  the  patriot  forces  lay, 

Off  to  the  left  the  red-coats  stood 
And  fought  their  losing  day ; 

Nor  faltered,  till  across  the  trench 
Leapt  Arnold,  passion-swift  to  join 

His  rough-clad  regiments  and  wrench 
The  battle  from  Burgoyne. 

Dear  Yaddo,  when  I  think  on  thee 
I  would  my  land  were  as  thou  art, 

Yes,  that  it  might,  through  ages,  be 
Thy  very  counterpart. 

Here  Wisdom  dwells  a  guest  divine, 
And  Hope  stands  tip-toe  on  the  stair, 

And  sweet-voiced  Poesy  by  sign 
Is  present  everywhere. 

With  murmurous  voice  the  fountain  sings, 
Along  the  floor  slow  sunbeams  creep, 

While  angels  twain  with  outspread  wings 
Their  silent  love-watch  keep. 


Nay,  best,  my  Lady  in  her  tower, 
As  in  the  body  dwells  the  soul, 

Sits,  half  unconscious  of  her  power, 
Calm  regent  of  the  whole. 

Yes,  O  my  Country,  would  thy  life 
Like  Yaddo's  might  for  ever  be 

By  loving-kindness  freed  from  strife, 
Through  righteousness  made  free. 


103 


THE  DESIRED  HAVEN. 

CROSS  the  bar,  at  set  of  sun, 

With  gentle  motion,  tranquil,  slow, 
Her  harbor  gained,  her  voyage  done, 
I  see  the  stately  vessel  go. 

A  glory  strikes  her  from  afar, 

Deep  crimson  lights  her  masts  enfold ; 
Gleams,  silver-pointed,  every  spar, 

And  all  her  sails  are  cloth  of  gold. 

I  see  the  friends  along  the  shore, 
I  hear  their  voices  full  and  clear, — 

"  Good  ship  !    Good  ship  !  Thy  toils  are  o'er. 
Soul,  find  thy  rest.     Cast  anchor  here." 

Well-earned  the  greeting  ;  earned  the  rest. 

Pilot  divine,  whom  winds  obey, 
To  us  who  still  the  billows  breast 

Like  entrance  grant  at  close  of  day. 


104 


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